


It Happens

by TheVoidless



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Explicit Language, It's quite depressing, M/M, Self Dregradation, Suicidal Thoughts, The word fluffy isn't in my vocabulary, but don't worry!, mentioned self harm, oh yeah almost forgot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 00:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVoidless/pseuds/TheVoidless
Summary: Tom's feeling really down in the dumps.





	It Happens

Tom could feel the words grating on his skin, like a pressure on all sides of his body that's crushing him completely. Shaping him into what he really was. 

_Meaningless. Insignificant._

He’s in the shower, and stands beneath the shower head. Tom can feel the water droplets pounding on his skin. There’s a mist around him that he breathes in. It’s nearly choking him.

_Pathetic. Useless._

He smashes his eyes closed. Maybe it was to withhold the tears. Or maybe he just couldn't stand looking at himself. His grotesque body. There's scars where there shouldn't be. It wasn't an accident, as much as Tom tells people otherwise. 

_Ugly. Disgusting._

He liked it sometimes. The feeling of a knife on his skin. He’ll draw it over the membrane of his body and he’ll admire the scars left behind. Not enough to draw blood most of the time. Just enough to see the raised skin. Tom traces over them with nimble fingers, taking pleasure from what he’s made. He’s afraid of himself.

_Masochist. Insane._

Tom’s head was bent down low, hands coming up to clutch his wet, matted hair. They're pulling at the strands, but it's not enough pain. It was never enough, was it? No matter how much suffering he gave himself, it wouldn't stop him from choking on the reasons why he was such a fucking disgrace.

_Alcoholic. Addict._

But what else could drown out those hideous voices in and out of his head? 

Oh, that's right. This is one way. Tom inspects the way the detachable head of the shower is long and metallic. He curiously takes it in his hands, gently at first. He places it around his neck like a noose. He fancies it's attached to something more than a simple shower holder. Tom yanks it in his hands until he feels the constriction, and each breath takes a bit more effort. He swallows and feels the way it's constricted. It feels good. As his neck softly hangs from the hose he presses his head against the wall.

_Why are you still alive?_

Tom doesn't know why. He knows full well how much better off the world would be with him dead in it. He fantasizes killing himself in multiple ways nearly constantly. Or, at least, when the voices are loud enough.

But he knows he can't bring himself to do it. No matter how often he thinks it, no matter how strong the urge is in his mind his body won't go through. It's like there's a separation between the two. Which is right and which is wrong? What is Tom really in control of?

He knows nothing will happen. He lets go of the rough hose like every other time, untangling himself from it, and eyes still closed, merely stands there. Thinking. But maybe thinking is too painful. So Tom goes and gets on his knees in the shower. There are scrubbing noises that emit and he leans down. The floor is hard, but it's nice. It grounds him to what's real. And what was real was the fact that Tom was in a shower, crying, self degrading. He hated himself.

He knew everyone else hated him, especially after that fight he and Edd got into. He drank too much, said too much. Tom was a nasty drunk. Edd had had enough. Tom doesn't blame him.

And what about the time Matt found him in his room? When Tom swore at him to no end, insulting the ginger haired man for being a fucking narcissist, you're a sick fuck, you know that? Matt stop talking to him after that.

Tord. He was always fighting the commie, even sober. Tom didn’t know how to feel about him. It was like they gravitated towards each other whenever they felt like picking a bone.

They were his housemates, and Tom didn't deserve them. He didn't understand how he was still here, how he still had those three at his side. But they weren't at his side anymore. He lost that. He lost them. 

Edd’s puns and laughter, the bright smiles and the optimistic creativity. The support he used to give before Tom stopped leaning on his shoulder and started taking comfort in alcohol and pain.  
Matt’s silly actions, and the motions of his energetic arms as he excitedly told them about a new movie coming out. He wasn't a complete narcissist like Tom told him he was. He cared about his friends.

And Tord? Tom couldn't say much that wasn't rude about him. At least, other than being less cruel than his perception liked to lead him to believe. But he could admit the communist was better than him. Tord wasn’t the one that broke down and started crying in the shower, the one who wants to die but live because it's hard to tell where the line starts and ends. Tord wasn't the fuck up that Tom was. 

Tom shakes his head. He’s got a new wave of hacking breaths and salty tears and he puts his face into his hands. Nothing should have to look at his sorry fucking self.

It ends as he's pulled back into reality. The water splashing on his exposed skin does more than he thought it would. His senses bring him out of his mind, his self destructive thoughts.

Recognizing this, Tom opens his eyes and removes his hands from his face. He starts feeling his surroundings from the bottom of the shower. He reaches for the temperature adjustment knob, letting the rigid material sink in. He drags fingers over the artistic mounds of the knob, taking note of each dip. Tom touches the plastered wall, and it's surprisingly soft and smooth compared to the metal of the shower hose. He moves to sense where each plate was cemented into the wall.

But it doesn't last forever. His position was prone to something more. He ended up looking down, down at his fattening body. Tom knows he's not overweight. It was just a bit of chub on his stomach. He knows he shouldn't have to look like a model on the magazines they sell at grocery stores. But he can't help but feel like he's losing everything, that he didn't have control over the course of his life so it's a no brainer that he can't even make his body do what he wants.

There it is again. A sob escapes his lips as much as he doesn't want it to. Another racks his breath as he follows the lines of scars he's made on himself. Tom likes to inspect them, to view them and to feel them. But he knows it's gross. It's disturbing. Why did he like it? Other people thought it was disgusting. It was. But it wasn't. 

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere there's a soft knock on the door. Tom jumps out of his skin, and immediately pushes himself up off the floor. “Tom?” It's Tord’s voice. That fucker. Probably here because he heard Tom crying and he wanted to make him suffer more. Tom already knows what he’ll hear next, the string of insults already forming in his head until-

“Are you okay?”

Tom’s train of thought freezes. The fuck? He stays perfectly still, a statue under the downpour of water. 

But he was in no condition to speak. If Tord heard him he'd know Tom was crying his guts out, his nasally voice a dead giveaway. So he settles with a quick, “Yeah.” He wanted it to be fast, like a bandage ripped off. But it wasn't good enough. Tom already wants to drown himself right then and there as a hint of his voice betrays him. Fuck.

“Erm,” Tord starts out again. His accent was unusually thick. “Look, you've been in there for over an hour. And you really don't seem good at all. I saw you fight Edd, Tom. I know how much he means to you. And… I really want to make sure you're okay. And, uh, don't worry about coming out if you're not ready. I just… I'm worried about you.”

His housemate’s tone was wracked with uncertainty. Tom doesn't blame him. But of all things, why was Tord concerned for him? Since when did he deserve that kind of passion from the other man? Even after all their fights and grievances.

“Thanks,” he replies, and cringes at the crack in his speech. “I'll be out in a sec.”

Tom hears a faint, “Alright,” from outside the door and he's gone. 

Tom keeps to his word, cleaning himself up for the first time since getting in the shower, and jumps right out as soon as he's done. He's fast to put on clothes, but when he opens the door it's Tord again. Just standing there waiting.

“If you want to talk about anything, Tom,” he offers. “I know we've had our bouts but we can put that aside. You probably hate me, and that’s fine. But. You know. If you wanted...”

His eyes float off from Tom’s face a bit like he's afraid of what he was going to do. Did he expect the other to hit him? Yell? Swear?

He knew what he should have done. Tom imagines himself saying, “Fuck off,” and just stalking off to his room to get out of his miserable state. He knows they both expect him to stay there for hours more, drink a few bottles of Smirnoff. Sleep it off and be slightly better the next morning, if not hungover and sour.

But Tom surprises them both by simply walking up and hugging the other male. He didn't know what made him do it, only an impulse of a feeling. An unconscious want that he wanted someone to hold him and embrace him for who he was, to tell him how much of a failure he wasn’t.

Did he expect that from Tord? No. Did he think Tord would hug him back in a legitimate effort to comfort him? Absolutely not. But he did.

And it felt so, so good. Like he finally wasn’t alone in the world, that maybe there was hope. The arms that come around his midsection is a nice pressure. It’s not painful. It’s warm and comforting.

But then a surge of emotion comes out again, from this newfound act of acceptance. Because now Tom’s shoved his face into the other’s shoulder and he’s crying again, god damn it, he’s crying.

“I’m such a-” A sharp inhalation of breath, “a fuck up, aren’t I?”

He hates the way his voices carries his pain, and there’s a gross underline to it. Tom wishes Tord didn’t have to see him like this, but he was there. And he offered help. Tom took what he could get, anything at this point, to stop him from full self destruction.

There’s a hesitant pat on his back, that turns into a more assured and solid rub once Tom doesn’t stop it. 

“No, Tom,” the other in red spoke softly, gently. Like he was dealing with some fucking child. It made Tom grate out more hacking breaths. Pathetic. 

Maybe Tord noticed, maybe he didn’t, but his voice then got a bit harder. Protective. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to yourself. You’re a human being, and no one’s perfect, got that? No one is, so don’t think you have to be.”

Tom’s sure now that his snot and tears was ruining the other’s hoodie, but at this point he’s afraid that if he pulls away, Tord would see how fucked up he was and wouldn’t offer this again.

“You’re an amazing person, Tom.”

Excuse me? Him? Amazing? Tord must have been high. There’s no way he just said that and meant it. Or maybe he was trying to say something, anything to make Tom stop crying. He was a nuisance, wasn’t he? Because there’s no way that this man, the man who he’s fought tooth and nail with over these years, had just told him he was an amazing person.

“I know we’ve… y’know. Had our differences. I just. I see you with Edd and Matt and you’re a really good friend to them.”

Then, his voice dropped to something quieter, “Sometimes I wish you were like that with me, but, ah, there’s no way that’s going to happen, right?”

Tom barely even heard that last part, thinks for a second that he imagined it, but is so, so glad he did. He was seeing this other side to the communist he didn’t dare look for before. He knows he was looking for someone to hate, to take his anger and frustrations out on. Tom wanted to get into those fights they had. He initiated more than half of them. But little did he ever consider maybe Tord went along with it all, just for him. Just for him. Someone doing something for him. It gave him worth. That someone cared about him didn’t make his existence meaningless. 

But what Tord said didn’t mean that. For all he knew, Tom heard it wrong. 

“...and I’m just glad you’re alive.”

What? Tom must have gone too deep in thought, or maybe his face was really in too deep into the fabric of Tord’s hoodie, because he didn’t catch what came before it. 

The confession just made Tom even sadder, and he cried harder. God, he was a mess. That Tord even cared at all to be talking to him now was just… Just depressing in a sense that Tom never knew, never considered it in that way about the other man. 

That he actually wanted to commit suicide, that he ended up not doing it. 

Did Tord know about those suicidal tendencies? Fuck. Maybe he found the knife he kept under his mattress, maybe that’s why when he noticed Tom was in the bathroom for over an hour he thought-

“I am so, so sorry Tom,” he feels the other’s breath in his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t offer an explanation of why or what he was apologizing for. All Tom wanted to do was to shout in his face, how it wasn’t you, it was me. Because Tom was really fucked up and that wasn’t Tord’s fault.

They stood there for what felt like forever, simply holding each other. The heated solace could only last for so long, though. They ended up separating and awkwardly going back to the bathroom to clean Tom up. They didn’t say anything after that. 

Maybe things would start looking up for Tom. Maybe. Life was a whole big ‘maybe,’ because you just had to take things as they came. Maybe they would stop yelling at each other, they would be nice and be friends. Maybe they wouldn’t, maybe they’d keep up their rivalry after today, and Tom would continue to drive himself down deeper into his hole of self pity and isolation.

But Tom liked to think things would get better. That with every new day he’d gradually stop hurting himself and those around him. He supposes he’ll just have to see. Because the voices weren’t going anywhere soon. But he had Tord and Edd and Matt, and that was enough.


End file.
